Pinky's Book Link

Sunday, June 30, 2013

Here I am at Brisbane Airport and my week’s respite from the drudgery of everyday life is almost at an end. Nana and Grandad Poinker dropped me at the train station at 1.00pm ensuring that I would arrive at the airport at least two hours early.

If Scotto had been with me we would have had to tear through the terminal at breakneck speed to make it in time before check-in closed, only just succeeding by the skin of our porcelain veneers. The boy likes to cut it fine. Pinky on the other hand likes to arrive hours before departure just to play it safe like an old Grandma.

I stood at the entrance of the train station uselessly waving my return ticket over the turnstile like a defective magic wand.

“Excuse me,” I asked a woman who walked with a sense of purpose and appeared to know what she was doing, “Can you tell me where I’m supposed to poke this ticket into?”

“They collect the tickets when you get there,” she explained benevolently, “why don’t you just walk through that gate?”

I inclined my head slightly and immediately noticed the three-metre-wide open gate three paces to the left of me.

Grinning foolishly I managed to wrangle my luggage through the gate and promptly accosted my next unsuspecting victim with another inane and daft enquiry.

“Excuse me sir, but do you know which platform I need to go to for the airport train?”

The elderly man squinted at me with interest.

“There’s only one platform love, you’d better go down that lift with your luggage though.”

As I stepped into the lift and the doors closed behind me I realised the elderly gentleman had lied to me... big time.

The lift had two doors on either side. One door opened on to Platform One and the other on to, you guessed it, Platform Two.

“Sh#t!!!!” I silently screamed. “Which frickin door do I get out of???”

Fortunately when both doors of the lift opened simultaneously I saw that there was actually only one platform with rail lines either side and by walking a mere ten feet you could go from platform to platform twenty times within a minute if the fancy took you.

I only had to wait about twenty minutes for the train to arrive and I was lucky to nab the perfect bench just inside the door, spreading myself out comfortably over two seats.

I pondered briefly why I seemed to be attracting apprehensive looks from some of the other passengers as they boarded the train during the journey, especially the really old ones; until after an hour and a bit into the ride I noticed a sign fifteen centimetres from my nose.

PRIORITY SEATING AREA

Please vacate these seats for people with Disabilities, Seniors, Pregnant Women and Adults carrying children.Oh crap! I thought. Now I’m going to have to noticeably hobble off the train so everyone will think there’s something wrong with me.

Check-in went smoothly and I wasn’t even detained by those security guys who run that machine up and down your body searching for traces of explosives.

I’ve learned from the previous thirty-seven times they’ve picked me from the crowd and taken me into custody that you should never make eye contact. If you look at them and smile innocently as you’re walking past you’ll unavoidably be asked,

“Excuse me Madam, this will just take a few minutes.”

One time when Scotto and I were returning home from holidays I was (naturally) stopped (even though he’s the one who looks like he could be an Iraqi extremist. (I’m looking over my shoulder at present because even typing the word terrorist at an airport makes me nervous).

“I always get stopped for these checks!” I cheerily joked to the humourless woman conducting the going-over.

“I must look like a terrorist or something!” jested an innocuous Pinky.

She paused for an extended moment and stared coldly at me.

“Haha,” I managed to blather on nervously, “Must be my moustache that makes me look like an Iraqi radical!”

She continued, at uncomfortable length, to peer into my eyes with suspicion.

Needless to say I shut up quick smart after a cautioning kick in the shin from Scotto and we were ultimately allowed on to the plane.

Saturday, June 29, 2013

Pinky posing with a fake St Bernard at St Bernard's Hotel on Mt Tamborine. (There is a real one but he was taken outside to do number twos.)

After throwing back a quick coffee this morning, Mum, Dad and I set off early on a day trip to Mt Tamborine in the Gold Coast hinterland. It was akin to going back to childhood sitting quietly in the back of Dad’s Mercedes Benz and gazing out the window at the verdant scenery.

Of course if it was truly reflective of my childhood road trips there would have been two other kids sitting in the back with me and one of us would have probably been stricken with car sickness and spewed up all over the back seat; but nevertheless there was a certain element of being able to relinquish all responsibility which lent a childlike atmosphere to the outing.

In actual fact I did begin to sense a tinge of motion sickness on the way up the mountain with all the twists and turns, but I recently read that if you poke a piece of cotton wool down one ear it prevents nausea. So there I sat in the back of the car with a lump of tissue sticking out of one ear like an oversized slightly 'special' child… and guess what? It worked.

The purpose of the trip was so my real estate mogul parents could inspect a property which is coming up for auction next week. “You’ll like it,” promised Dad, “it has a little creek running through it!”

On that point, my father was not exaggerating. We drove down the long driveway towards the house and I was stunned at the beauty of the pink, red, white, purple and mixed-coloured camellia shrubs lining the way.

The four bedroom house is set on five acres of flattish ground surrounded by panoramic views of Surfers Paradise, rainforest and lush garden including a natural waterfall and running creek.

Just take a look;

This is the backyard waterfall!

Lush gardens

Massive gazebo overlooking the panorama.

Icy cold creek running all through the bottom of the property.

Ooooh... skinny dipping in Winter!

Views of the rainforest and Surfers Paradise

One of three delightful bridges crossing the creek.

Dozens of Camelia bushes all over the place.

Apparently the neighbour down the road is Simon Gallagher

of musical comedy fame!

You could call in for a cup of tea and some Pirates of Penzance!

Unbelievably beautiful.

Mind you, if Scotto and I ever moved into a place like this the garden would be so overgrown after a few months you wouldn’t even be able to motor down the driveway. We would undoubtedly ruin it with our miserable gardening expertise and innate laziness.

Anyway… this house, situated down the road is probably all we could afford at best.

The flawlessly made up woman behind the counter quickly scanned my unfashionable outfit with a swift and disapproving up and down movement of her head, incorporating her well-groomed eyebrows into the action.

“She can’t afford this!” I could hear her thinking. “Look at the frayed, faded old handbag she’s trying to conceal behind her back. I bet she’s spending her kid’s food money for the week on this handbag. To think this stunning handbag is going to be worn by this dishevelled welfare recipient. Wayne Cooper would roll over in his grave if he was dead.”

“MAH-YER ONE?” she startled me, querying in a nasally posh voice.

“I’m sorry…” I stuttered hesitantly, “I don’t know what that is.”

I held up my stained Visa card smiling timidly.

It took three attempts to successfully push my debit card into the little machine thing I was so intimidated.

All the while Mrs Slocum watched me suspiciously. I typed in the first three numbers of my pin number but for some reason became confused.

“Can I cancel this and start again please?” I meekly asked the woman.

The eyebrows slid up and down again. She was most probably wondering which mental facility I’d escaped from.

Sighing loudly, she pressed a few buttons on the machine and examined me with even more wariness.

This time I managed to type in all four numbers but the machine merely began to beep in a somewhat alarming fashion.

“Looks like you forgot your number again!” she stared at me with a mixture of mild contempt and scepticism.

It’s not my fault you snobby old bat, I thought, you’re responsible for my temporary amnesia because you’re making me nervous with your false eyelashes and your ‘Lady of the Manor’ persona.

Eventually I managed to remember the correct pin number and scarper out of the store clutching the parcel under my arm like a criminal.

Wednesday, June 26, 2013

"There is a fifth dimension beyond that which is known to man. It is a dimension as vast as space and as timeless as infinity. It is the middle ground between light and shadow, between science and superstition, and it lies between the pit of man's fears and the summit of his knowledge. This is the dimension of imagination. It is an area which we call the Twilight Zone."

I awoke in a lather of sweat last night, tangled in the sheets breathing rapidly and heart beating wildly in my chest.

(No, I hadn't been dreaming that Kevin Rudd had won leadership of the Labor Party, it was even worse than that.)

I'd been dreaming about flies. Flies in my mouth and eyes and ears. Flies and bugs invading my orifices, buzzing and flitting around in my face like a plague of locusts.

What could have ignited this horrific fiery and hellish delirium?

I believe it was the surroundings in which I am currently ensconced.

My parents cosy abode.

To say they are fond of art is somewhat of an understatement.

Sixty years of collecting bits and pieces here and there has led to a house full of some seriously disturbing and frightening pieces of art that a bogan (redneck) like Pinky finds a tad unnerving.

For example; 'Satan's Goat'!

An aggressive and realistic duck about to take a chunk from your calf waiting patiently just inside the front door.

A Norman Lindsay print in the foyer depicting a creepy monster seducing a virgin.

The print of a one eyed owl painted by a Tienanmen Square protester symbolising corruption in power.

A winsome gargoyle.

A bizarre half Japanese half Anglo-Saxon chick who stares at me as I drink my cup of tea!

Two nasty looking wolfie bookends.

Ned Kelly gone psycho!

Another scary Gargoyly thing!

Yet another weird goat!

A very scary wind chime ready to descend on your jugular!

Mandatory dragon in this house of fear!

An evil rocking horse that moves by itself when no one else is in the room!!!! (It did I swear!)

A collage of disturbing images!

Another unfinished weird owl (painted by Dad) with telescope lenses for eyes!

The skull of my childhood pet- a German Shepherd which dad accidentally dug up and glued back together!!!

A random wallaby skull Dad (said he) found on the side of the road and reconstructed!

Tuesday, June 25, 2013

As I squeezed into my plane seat between a young boy and an angry-looking young man (who’d tersely requested I move my laptop along in the overhead compartment so that he could squeeze his more important swollen rucksack in), I noticed six children sitting in the row behind and opposite me.

These were not your normal run-of-the-mill, back of seat kicking, overly vocal, weak-bladdered and annoying children… these were all children from the school I teach at. No… I didn’t do what you would expect and slap my sunglasses on affecting disguise whilst quickly looking away pretending not to see them. I didn’t have to. They pretended not to see me. How dare they? That’s a teacher’s prerogative!

To be honest, the kids were very well behaved during the entire flight. Perhaps this was because they too had noticed how crabby Mrs P has been lately, particularly on playground duty, and thought they’d err on the side of caution.

The next leg of the journey involved dragging my luggage across to the train station and travelling for another hour and a bit to get to the last station on the line, close to where my parents live on the Gold Coast.

Two stops before I reached my destination the final remaining passengers disembarked and the carriage was completely and worryingly empty. It was getting late and pitch black outside. I sat all alone, spooking myself by imagining scenes from the movie “Hostel” where the girl has her eye ball ripped out by a maniac in a train or visualising a distorted Edvard Munch face pressed up against the outside of one of the windows. I cringed behind my suitcase with one hand fiercely clenched around my laptop handles and the other buried in my pocket gripping my orange plastic ‘rape’ whistle.

I hope to hell Dad is at the station waiting for me at this late and ungodly hour and I don’t step out into a dark, deserted platform where a Freddy Krueger aficionado is waiting for me with his sharp steely knife, I thought nervously.

As the train drew to a stop and the doors slid open I was startled by bright lights and about three hundred, colourful rugby fans who were on their way back to Brisbane after a footy match. I looked at my watch… apparently it was only eight o’clock.

Dear old Dad, of course, was waiting right where he was supposed to be and I was safely escorted back to the luxurious Gold Coast mansion which I have decided during my stay to think of as ‘Rehab’.

They tried to make me go to rehab but I said, 'No, no, no.' Yes, I've been black but when I come back you'll know, know, know I ain't got the time and if my daddy thinks I'm fine He's tried to make me go to rehab but I won't go, go, go

I have to pack, go shopping for frozen supplies to nourish those unfortunates left behind, wash my hair, and recharge my phone, laptop and Kindle etc.

I loaded three books onto my Kindle yesterday, “Blogging for Dummies”, Bill Bryson’s “Down Under” and a book called “The Power of Habit” which examines… habits.

I’m a bit worried about a few things regarding this mini-holiday.

Firstly, I’m worried that I won’t know how to check in at the airport, (Scotto always does it for me) or find and catch the train from the airport (I usually just blindly follow Scotto around like a backward child).

How have I come to be this useless, dependant creature that relies on her husband to read a simple timetable? What if I get mugged on the train? (Note to self: pack school whistle.)

Secondly, I’m worried that I’ll spend the entire week arguing with my parents. Dad doesn’t approve of my blog so I will have to hide in the bedroom and write my daily post like a teenage girl writing in her secretive and explicit diary. (Dad thinks hackers will sift through the titbits of information on my blog, steal my identity and scandalise my life by exposing the highly controversial material I provocatively write, as well as invade my bank accounts and steal my millions.)

Mum doesn’t approve of a lot of things, including my hair.

“Why have you grown your fringe out, Pinky? Your forehead is way too big! You need to cover it up!”

Thirdly, I'm worried about getting too cold. I'm a tropical girl. I have no winter clothes and I'm too cheap to buy any.

Finally, I’m worried about missing my baby chihuahua, Pablo. I wish I could stuff him in my suitcase.

What if he forgets about me and bonds with Scotto in my absence?

Now, I dearly hope I am able to access the Internet through Dad’s wireless system… if he has it connected that is.If not… I’m afraid you won’t hear from me for a week.

Sunday, June 23, 2013

According to the Urban Dictionary … a Sabre-tooth Tiger is a woman well past her prime of being a Puma or even a Cougar. They lurk just before dusk in huge groups drinking Cosmopolitan after Cosmopolitan. They are looking for any form of action and are no stranger to the chase. They typically wear grey and white fur coats, have way too much gold jewellery, and wear more make up than Bozo the clown."OMG look at that dude, he's getting mauled by that Sabre tooth."

Lovely description of someone’s Mummy isn’t it?

I’ll bet my Cosmopolitan it was written by a man too. Single women in their thirties are coined a Puma (hi Kaz) and Cougar is the name delegated to single women from thirty to forty-nine.

We know all this already Pinky! I hear you mutter impatiently.

But did you know that the fortyish male equivalent of a Cougar is a Rhino; always horny and usually ugly.

Grave robber, Big Game Hunter and Milf Hunter are some of the names assigned to men who are attracted to older women.

This is one example of the species.

Val, the Grave Robber and Julie.

But isn’t that Scotto? I hear all my readers gasp (both of you).

Yes it is. Scotto is ten years (alright, ten and a half years , now shut up Scotto and go back to Candy Crush) younger than I and he will vouch for the fact that being married to an older woman has some definite advantages.

Yesterday I dragged Scotto along to watch a band called “The Reclining Rockers” who were playing seventies and eighties music in the beer garden of an unfashionable pub on the wrong side of town.

As suggested by their name these blokes have been around the block many times. The tread on their tyres might be a bit thin but they can still rock and roll with the best.

My friend Dolly was going out to lunch with her tribe of gal pals and had asked us to come along to the gig. All of the other husbands sensibly optioned to stay at home and watch the footy or play golf... but my young buck was keen to party on with us wrinklies.

Scotto and Dolly

There he stood; the honorary gigolo, surrounded by a bevy of mature beauties. Scotto entertained all of us with his silly pranks,

his Austen Powers impersonations and an endless stream of seemingly hilarious jokes. (I'd heard most of them)

I think he was the youngest person there until his favourite stepson, Thaddeus, turned up and stole his thunder.

It’s our seven year anniversary tomorrow and I just wanted to say Happy Anniversary to my young spunky toy boy!

Saturday, June 22, 2013

Instead of being woken up by the inane banter of radio jocks (why are they doing visual jokes on the radio now… it’s radio, don’t they realise we can’t see anything?) when the alarm went off this morning, I was roused by a Chihuahua tongue slurping up my nostril and the delightful sound of a full cup of coffee being placed on my bedside table by Scotto.

The school holidays could not have come at a more fitting time for Mrs Cranky Pants Poinker.

The ill-tempered, grouch-cloud encircling my persona over the last few weeks was explained to me in an article I just read in this morning’s Saturday paper.

“Older workers are grumpy, complain too much and don’t like being told what to do,” according to a survey of bosses by the Australian Human Rights Commission.

I hadn’t realised what a cantankerous crone I’ve been over the last few weeks until my forthright friend Emmsie warily asked me on Monday, “So Pinky, are you in a better mood today or are you going to snap our heads off all week again?”

Ohhh… I thought. Is that why I’ve been getting the feeling everyone has been avoiding me.

Come to think of it, Scotto has made a few comments of a similar ilk.

I even managed to put the boss offside with a strident, public whinge about having to miss out on lunch one day.

(David Attenborough voiceover)

In the wild the Pinky Grizzly Bear becomes very territorial around its food and has been known to quite literally tear another animal apart in its hunger.If I desire to remain in marital bliss, preserve frail friendships and maintain my current employment it seems I must take therapeutic action.

Therefore I have sensibly decided to run away from home.

On Monday I’m flying the coop and heading down to spend time with my parents who snap at each other all the time and will make me feel completely sane.

When you’re feeling old hang around with older people is my plan of thinking.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

I was just caught lying on the couch in my cow print PJs at 2 o’clock in the afternoon by the pool guy. I’m sure he’s seen it all before… he is a pool guy after all; wink, wink.

The mucous membranes lining my nose have finally given up trying to rid my body of the insidious virus contaminating it. After releasing more fluid than runs over Niagara Falls in the wet season they have at last ceased their deluge.

This is good, because I don’t think there is any remaining skin around my nostrils. It’s all been stripped away by a zillion sandpaper like tissues leaving raw patches of tenderised sirloin instead.

I can’t taste a thing… but I’m craving Scotch Finger biscuits dipped in a milky tea with three sugars. Sook food.

I attempted to take a nap yesterday but every time I’d deliriously nod off, this guy …

Borat the German Shepherd

would begin barking like Rin Tin Tin, setting off the other three mongrels in a chorus of yap-bloody-yapping.

While I lay wafting in and out of consciousness, Celine and Pablo sat on a high perch like worker bees diligently guarding the queen bee.

The trouble was, every time a car drove past Borat would bark and Pablo, in his excitement would clumsily jump off the back of the couch straight on top of the enlarged and tender spleen housed in my abdomen.

Not the nicest way to be awoken from a feverish slumber.

I must have drifted off for at least ten minutes because at one stage I awoke to discover Pablo had unravelled an entire toilet roll. He had also shredded the eighty-seven used and damp tissues sitting on the coffee table beside where I lay in my semi-coma.

There were bits of soggy tissue from one corner of the house to the other.

Monday, June 17, 2013

But because I love you all so much I have written a ‘list’. I’ve always enjoyed reading Frances Whiting in the Sunday Mail and yesterday she wrote a list of ‘Things Women Would NEVER Say’, eg: “I love my stomach!”

I have compiled my own list of things MEN would never say, please enjoy…

“Don’t worry about cooking dinner. Baked beans on toast will be fine.”

“Scarlett Johansson isn’t all that attractive; her eyes are way too far apart.”

“What was the fuss about Sharon Stone in Fatal Attraction again? I can never remember.”

“It wasn’t the dog that passed wind, it was me.”

“Two hundred and fifty dollars is definitely not too much to pay for a pair of shoes.”

“I got bored while I was at home sick with a cold today so I cleaned the microwave for you.”

“I wiped out the bathroom sink after I shaved because I didn’t want you to have to do it.”

“Arnie Schwartzenegger movies are so inane. I much prefer a good Rom Com.”

“Let’s take this Cosmopolitan Quiz on how well suited we are!”

“My favourite author? It would have to be a toss-up between Marian Keyes and Kathy Lette.”

“Watching the V8s on television all day is a waste of time. Let’s go on a romantic picnic.”

“I’ll just have a Fillet-o-fish burger please.”

“Having cheerleaders at footy games is a disgrace. It demeans women.”

“Don’t worry; it’s just a common cold. I’ll be over it by lunchtime.”

“I’ve had such a bad day. Pass the chocolate! Quickly!”

“Look, I know it’s a pain but I promised my friend I’d have a Tupperware party. Are you free on Wednesday night?”

“Do you think my bum looks big in these stubbies?”

“Do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

“Can you pleeeease come over and kill a spider in my bathroom for me?”

“Look I know everyone says our team was ripped off, but I believe the referees do the best job they can in the circumstances.”

#PS: This is a link to my highest rating post ever... over 700 pageviews and I'm not sure why??? take a look and leave a comment if you can figure it out please.One more sleep until the Eeta bunny!

Sunday, June 16, 2013

Back in the 1800s, when I was a teenager, my mother would watch me leave to go out with my friends her face riddled with disappointment and disapproval.

“Why do you go out all dressed up in a lovely outfit wearing rubber flip flops and not bothering to dry your hair?” she would despair.

“It’s dry at the front!” I’d retort.

For some reason I would blow dry my fringe but not bother about the long strands of sopping wet hair trailing down my back.

Have I lectured my own teenage daughter about her style choices over the last couple of years?

Well… I have had a few words to say about shorty-shorts such as these silly things with the pockets hanging out (not to mention bum cheeks).

“Boys like a bit of mystery Lulu,” I snap, channelling my mother, “They don’t want to see what you had for breakfast!”

None of my four boys adopted the “pull your bloody pants up, idiot” style that has hubby Scotto spitting chips every time he espies one sauntering down the street.

I guess it’s a clear-cut sign of getting old when you fail to understand current teenage trends… like the "Onesie".

These have been on the overseas market since last year but have only taken off in the back woods of North Queensland a few months ago (as far as I’m aware anyway). I can almost hear the banjos playing.

Surely this is a singularly teenage phenomenon. Personally, if I take a trip to the supermarket I will be very disenchanted to see a grown man dressed up like a baby pushing a shopping trolley.

Lulu and her friends went to the school rave on Friday night dressed in their Onesies.

“Why aren’t you wearing the animal types?” I queried, displaying a broadmindedness and awareness of fashion pop-culture I hoped would impress the sisterhood.

Friday, June 14, 2013

Hmmm... is that glass half empty or half full?I’m not sure if I’m an optimist, a pessimist or a realist. I know on the rare occasion I buy a lotto ticket I’m usually damn certain I’m going to win. In fact, one day Scotto and I had a full blown argument about how we would spend our millions when we won. One thing I do know for sure is that being an optimist can lead to a lot of disappointment. At least if you’re always expecting the worst, when it actually happens, you’ll be mentally prepared.

Pinky's QuizI’ve prepared a short quiz if you would like to read on and determine whether you are an optimist, pessimist or realist.

When you are pouring bleach into the toilet bowl and you feel something splash in your eye you;

(a) Think it’s probably just water from the bowl and rinse your eye in the sink nonchalantly.

(b) Know that it was most probably bleach, panic, and spend ten minutes dousing your eye with the garden hose.

(c) Rinse your eye and make a mental note to wear goggles next time you clean the toilet.

When you hop on the bathroom scales and notice you’ve gained three kilograms you;

(a) Think, oh well, at least some of the wrinkles in my face might have filled out.

(b) Know that the middle-age spread has irrevocably begun and there’s not a damn thing you can do about it.

(c) Distribute your weight with both hands on the bathroom counter until you see your desired numbers register on the scales.

When you are out on a walk with the dog, your dog poops on the grass beside the footpath and you forgot to bring a bag, you;

(a) Wait for the person jogging behind you and ask them if they have a bag.

(b) You wait dejectedly for the tirade of verbal abuse from the person jogging behind you.

(c) You drag the dog along while it’s doing its pooping so no-one will know what’s happening.

When you are b#tching about ‘someone’ at work and your friends suddenly stop laughing and pull a weird expression you;

(a) Assume that ‘someone’ has walked in but you probably managed to shut your big mouth in time and they didn’t hear a thing, then you quickly change the subject.

(b) Slowly turn around knowing that you are about to find out how difficult it is for a middle-aged woman to find new employment in today’s youthful workforce.

(c) Say in a loud voice, “But despite all that we all love the old dragon dearly don’t we?” and go and hide in your classroom for the next two weeks.

When a strange light intermittently flashes on the dashboard of your car you think;

(a) I really better get this car into a workshop before something happens, the problem gets worse and it winds up costing a lot of money.

(b) That’d be right. This is going to cost me a fricking fortune. I bet something really expensive has broken.

(c) I’d better stick an Elastoplast over that light so it doesn’t keep annoying me.

When your eighteen year old son has a horrible screaming match with you and you hear him slam the door and leave the house at 1.30am, you think;

(a) He will probably go to a mate’s house, cool down and come back with his tail between his legs tomorrow morning.

(b) I am a failure as a mother. I’ve probably really upset him, and now he’ll run away and become a street kid.

(c) Oh well… I still have four other kids.

When you’re having a really bad week/month; you feel ugly, fat, stupid, unlovable and jealous of everyone and everything you,

(a) Go and have a facial, a massage and buy some new clothes/jewellery/perfume.

(b) Think that things are never going to get better and start withdrawing from people for a while.

(c) Go to the hairdressers and have your long hair cut off into an unappealing bob just to give yourself a concrete reason for feeling ugly.

You enter blogging competition and when you don’t win you think;

(a) They probably forgot to read my lovely blog. Maybe it was accidentally overlooked. I’ll try again next year.

(b) I knew it all along. I suck and no one is interested in what I write. I may as well give up.

(c) Remember that you’ve never won anything in your life before so it’s probably good that nothing much has changed because you don’t really want to be rich and famous, get to meet the Queen, win an Order of Australia, have a cleaning lady, go to nice restaurants, travel or learn how to write proper anyway.

And finally… the old glass half empty/full analogy.

When you see that your glass of Chardonnay is at half-mast you think:

(a) Oh goody, I still have another delicious half glass left to drink!

(b) Well that hardly hit the sides and now I only have a half glass left.

(c) Oh well, lucky I still have a full bottle left in the fridge.

Your results my friend:

Mostly As- a Pollyanna optimist!

Mostly Bs- a Murphy’s law pessimist

Mostly Cs- a Pinky Poinker realist!

PS: I never b#tch about anyone at work, that was poetic licentiousness.

Tuesday, June 11, 2013

Warning: If you are a boy you should probably cease reading this post because it may be a bit icky for the faint-hearted.It’s come to my attention that Lara Bingle and Michael Clarke (the Australian cricket guy) aren’t together anymore! At least that’s what I gleaned today when I caught up on all the gossip magazines whilst waiting an interminably long time at the doctor this afternoon.

In fact, it appears that Ms Bingle and Clarkey broke up some time ago. I only know this because I saw a photo of his wedding to a glamorous brunette in one of the magazines called,“No Idea” or something like that.

But I’m afraid that’s not the worst of it; I also read today... Michael Jackson is dead!

Imagine the hazardous germs those magazines must be harbouring. Some of them were so old they probably give refuge to ancient Bubonic plague bacteria. Secretive, little germs just waiting to be released from the crinkly pages of a 14th century Woman’s Day by some random three year old with a runny nose, manically rifling through the magazine table and annoying the crap out of everyone in the waiting room.

But there was worse to come when I eventually made it in to see the doctor.

“Are you sure that’s necessary,” I stammered with false cheer, “I’ve had UTIs before and it’s never anything serious, just your garden variety bacteria. Ha ha!”

(Besides, I had already taken two leftover antibiotics from an old packet the previous night, so any live bacteria were probably already floating lifelessly on their backs by now.

They were actually Padraic’s leftover acne antibiotics I’d taken… but I wasn’t about to reveal that clanger to the good doctor.)

“Off you go!” he scoffed jovially, pushing me out the door into the waiting room.

Of course a dozen heads immediately snapped up to attention, scrutinising the specimen jar I clutched and then watched me skulking down the corridor to the loo like a criminal.

As I pushed open the door the stink hit me full in the face. “Come in,” smiled a lady washing her hands shamelessly at the sink.

She’d clearly not been “providing” a number one specimen. It was possibly a number three by the smell of the cloying, malodorous entity enveloping the cubicle.

It was a difficult mission I had in producing a midstream specimen into a miniscule container whilst holding my breath and not actually making contact with the toilet seat. But… the mission was accomplished.

Then came the daunting task of walking the twisted path past all the curious gawkers ogling me as I carried my warm, sloshing container back to the doctor’s room.

I should have pretended to trip over and spill it all over someone. Oh well, maybe next time.

Sunday, June 9, 2013

Feeling a bit full of pride today, a bit chuffed you might say! Two of my boys are the reason for this self-satisfaction.

Last Wednesday evening Hagar stumbled out of his bedroom brandishing a tie and shirt in the air.

“Hey Scotto,” he called out, “does this tie go with this shirt?”

Scotto gave him the A okay sign and he had just about withdrawn back into his den of ill-repute, when I snapped out of my blog-writing abstraction and intercepted him.

“Where are you going that requires one to wear a tie?” I royally needled him.

“Awww… just an apprenticeship board dinner,” he answered evasively.

“Why are you going to that?” I persisted. “… have you won an award or something, Hagar?”

“Yeah Mum,” he mumbled discreetly, “I’ve been nominated for a First Year Electrical Apprentice of the Year award.”

After a bit more motherly badgering a typically uncommunicative Hagar finally came clean and informed us that the formal dinner presentation was on Friday night (in two days) and he was one of four nominees out of 300 apprentices. It goes without saying that Pinky was not on the invitation list. I’m counting myself lucky I even found out about it.

The mind-boggling news is that I think I may have a new and clandestine ally in my continual struggle to glean any information from Hagar. His adorable girlfriend Meggles, accompanied Hagar to the dinner and without any prompting from Pinky, snapped a photograph of the elusive gentleman accepting his medal and sent it to me via her phone.

Hagar second from left!

Yay for girlfriends! We mothers really have to be grateful for the small things when our boys grow up.

Who’s the other boy I’m so proud of on this beautiful Queen’s birthday weekend?

This little guy…

Pablo Escobark, who went for his first walkies along the Strand today. Pablo took to strutting around on a lead very quickly and I would have expected nothing less from the smartest Chihuahua in the Universe.

Poem for Pablo (El Perro)(To be read in a Mexican accent)

Andale epa! We are een the car!

Where are we goeeeng? I hope eet’s not far!

Please don’t say eet’s back to the vet!

I theenk I break out een a cold sweat

The smell of that Vet's ees one theeng I hate…

Plus when he pokes sometheeng een my date.

What’s that I smell? Eet smells like the feesh

The stupid cat sometimes leaves in eets dish.

Eh sweet Holmes! I theenk it’s the beach!

My mummee is holdeeeng one lead each

For me and my seester to go for a walk!

What’s that een the sky? It looks like a hawk…

I theenk I’d better stay close to my mummee

That hawk is theenking that Pablo looks yummee.

I better stay nice and close to her feet

Or that hawk will swoop down for eet’s lunch meat.

Why ees my mommy lyeeng on the ground?

Why she say Pablo go back to the pound?

I deedn’t mean to trip my mummee upEet’s not my fault I ees just a chico pup.

PS: Happy birthday Queen Elizabeth II and thanks for the day off! Have a cracker party and don't do anything I wouldn't do.

Copyright Notice

Copyright Pinky Poinker 2012/2013. All content on this site remains the sole property of the author and may not be reproduced wholly or in part without the express written permission of the author.

Crediting: Images and/or literary excerpts used on this blog will be credited where possible however if you are the copyright owner and have not been credited correctly, please email pinkypoinker@gmail.com to have this rectified. Please note, evidence of copyright ownership will be required.